


The Ghost Of Christmas Present

by mirawonderfulstar



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale gets discorporated, Christmas Eve, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Footnotes, Hurt/Comfort, No Seriously This Is Too Fluffy, Other, Sharing a Body, Some Humor, Temporary Character Death, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 02:38:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16904523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirawonderfulstar/pseuds/mirawonderfulstar
Summary: Neither Aziraphale or Crowley like the holidays terribly much, until an accident on Christmas Eve brings them together in an unexpected way.





	The Ghost Of Christmas Present

Snow was falling on London. Great white flakes flurried through the air, spiraling down from the slate-grey sky to land on rooftops and treetops and streets both bustling and quiet. The ducks in St James Park had all flown to warmer climes, leaving the pond empty and frozen. The days had grown short and bleak and cold, and for one demon, tucked up in his flat in Mayfair, very lonely indeed.

Crowley hadn’t always spent the winter sleeping and waiting for time to pass. Once upon a time he’d been rather fond of the season. Snow had charmed him. It could be beautiful, or it could be treacherous, but mostly humans merely saw it as inconvenient and irritating. Something to be brushed off of cars with a swear when one was late for work, or admired out a window framed by colored lights, or the cause of a long skid and an abrupt crunch with thousands of pounds in auto repairs as a result. Crowley had seen it all appreciatively, disasters and decorations alike.

But the truth was that anything Crowley might have looked on fondly about winter had become overshadowed in recent years by the growing after-effects of one of his own little schemes. The commercialization of Christmas had been a resounding success for Crowley; he’d reported those Coca-Cola ads to Hell and they hadn’t understood at the time, but years later when the Heavenly aspects of the holiday had grown to be completely overshadowed by greed, dissatisfaction, hedonism, and corruption of what had once been a day intended for spiritual concerns they’d given him a raise and admitted they might have spoken too soon. Crowley hadn’t appreciated it.

Oh, he derived some small enjoyment from the mayhem of Black Friday[1] and rather more enjoyment than he would ever care to admit at some of the films aimed at children[2] but overall, he grew more dispirited about the whole thing as time went on.

The reason for this was very simple. Crowley was under the impression that he had lost the ability to appreciate a bad job well done, and grown too soft on humanity when it came to this particular holiday. The truth was, of course, that Crowley had always been rather soft on humanity and that the extent to which Christmas had grown to encompass the entire months of November and December depressed him because being reminded of Christmas for two months straight would depress most people who see Christmas as a sham and a racket.

Only Crowley didn’t. He _liked_ Christmas. He liked the lights, and the tree, and some of the music was nice, and the snow, and the smells of baking and hot cocoa and goose with stuffing, and goodwill towards men. He liked the way people were the last days before—cheerful and warm and friendly, or glowering and irritated and in a rush[3]. He liked wrapping paper—had there ever been anything so frivolous and wasteful yet undeniably cheerful as wrapping paper?—and gift-giving. He liked the way people wanted to look after each other, how they seemed to know that regardless of faith or creed or belief they shared the activity of huddling together and celebrating warmth and light and love at the darkest point of the year with every other human who had ever lived. Christmas hadn’t always existed, and perhaps wouldn’t again someday, but humans had been gathering in the dark and the cold to stave off the winter for as long as Crowley had been paying attention[4]. It was lovely, for the humans.

For Crowley it was a source of growing confusion and dejection, or more accurately confusion about dejection. He couldn’t figure out why it should make him as miserable as it did to see humans scuttle around, happy and sad by measures as they enjoyed themselves and hurt themselves and had fun and suffered from stress-induced breakdowns.

To the observer, watching Crowley put strings of lights up in his flat and on his balcony railing and decorate a silvery tree with small glass baubles by himself, sit down in front of his television and watch whatever program happened to be showing on Christmas day and drink a bottle of wine alone while he ate Indian takeout, the answer would have been so glaringly obvious one might wish to shake him. Unfortunately, there was nobody to tell Crowley that perhaps he would be happier with a certain angel on a holiday whose commercialism hadn’t quite managed to squash its underlying theme of togetherness with those we love.

Aziraphale, the angel in question, went through a similar struggle every winter.

To Aziraphale’s mind, winter was a time for being safe and snug inside, with something hot to drink and something sweet to snack on and a book to read. It was _not_ a time he wanted to go out and perform good works to restore a holiday to its original function, especially since Aziraphale had decided long ago that Heaven was fighting a losing battle when it came to Christmas[5].

But the most irritating part of the whole thing was the flash of annoyance he always felt towards how _happy_ people were. He’d go around and fulfill his quota of Christmas miracles and return to the shop in low spirits. Then, often, he’d bake a batch of biscuits and eat them curled up on the couch under a blanket with something he’d read a thousand times before, trying to ignore the little voice niggling in the back of his mind that he was very deeply unhappy and that he hated this time of year, truly and deeply loathed it. It wasn’t very angelic to dislike something that made so many people happy just because it was more work for you, personally, after all.

That was not why Aziraphale found Christmas to be a miserable time of year, but neither our angel nor our demon has ever been terribly good at acknowledging their feelings to themselves, especially when those feelings are about each other. It was pure accident[6] that shook them out of their shared December slumps one year and pushed them into a new set of shared holiday traditions.

 On a cold, snowy day in late December, the 24th, in fact, Aziraphale was finishing his rounds for the day, checking in on the people in a particular hospital and making sure a little girl would be discharged in time to go home for Christmas. As he was leaving he gave a winning lottery ticket to a homeless man, thinking as he did so that this aspect of his job would be a damn sight easier if Heaven would let him carry or conjure up large sums of money, but if he was going to look an ass by giving people who were clearly in need of financial assistance rigged lottery tickets then so be it. He sniffed in annoyance at Up There as he crossed the street, not looking where he was going, and was hit by a cab carrying a family of chattering American tourists.

Aziraphale barely had time to let out a startled “oh dear” before he was popped out of his corporation and left floating above the scene, watching with mounting horror as people rushed out from the hospital lobby and his body was lifted onto a cart and wheeled inside. The homeless man had hurried off, hopefully to scratch off that lottery ticket, Aziraphale thought with some irritation. The Americans were all apologizing, as was the cabbie, who looked like he was about to cry as he inspected the front of the car and the Aziraphale-shaped mark in the slush of the road. The angel cringed, thinking of the cold, wet dirt that was even now clinging to the front of his favorite jumper and pair of pants. The overcoat might be salvageable but the outfit underneath was probably not.

His body was either dead or very close to, for this is the way that ethereal and infernal beings’ corporations worked: imagine a ghost. Imagine the way that ghosts are said to operate, repeating lived actions in perpetuity and haunting places that had been important to them, sometimes even after those places have changed. Reflect on the story of the ghost of Albrecht Hall, who is said to walk up a flight of stairs that no longer exist and vanish through a wall on the second floor at the same time every night because to this spirit, the memory of the layout of the building is more important than the architecture today. Imagine that repetition, and understand that to those agents of Heaven or Hell that walk amongst us in the world, existence on Earth is almost exactly unlike this. It is the body that craves routine, craves air and pleasure and memory, and when the spirit is popped out for any reason it is necessary to get back in as fast as possible before the body forgets these little repetitions that made up life.

Unfortunately, as you are aware, Aziraphale had spent his day performing miracles for Heaven’s Christmas quota, and was very nearly out of them. If his corporation had been damaged badly enough that he had been expelled, it was likely too damaged for him to be able to heal it and return to it. A quick check inside the hospital confirmed this suspicion. He used the last of his ethereal energy to make sure it was kept on hand until he’d be able to come back, and then he hurried out of the hospital and headed towards Mayfair.

It would be too much to hope they’d keep his body around once it well and truly expired, cremations were cheap and easy these days and Christmas was the absolute worst time of year to return to Heaven. Aziraphale needed Crowley’s help, and he needed it as soon as possible.

Getting to Mayfair was no trouble. He simply moved through the air and the walls of the building, settling inside Crowley’s flat with a relieved sigh that he could still navigate his way around when not walking.

Crowley was napping in his living room, a thick fluffy blanket thrown over him and the television turned down to a murmur in the background. Some cooking program continued to run as Aziraphale gave Crowley an experimental poke. His aura passed right through him, of course, but that was the goal. Eventually Crowley would feel his presence and wake up.

Or at least, Aziraphale assumed and hoped he would. He didn’t expect Crowley to let out a little sigh and curl towards him, his brows knitting together and his lips parting slightly. He didn’t expect him to reach out, a tendril of something rich and dark and warm sliding towards him through the ether. If Aziraphale had had a heart at that moment, it would have fluttered in his chest as Crowley’s own aura brushed against his and Crowley sighed again. It was… sort of nice. Like being touched without being touched.

But they didn’t have time for this. Aziraphale wanted his body back. He prodded Crowley again, more insistently, and then when that didn’t work he slid onto the couch and opened Crowley’s eyes himself.

Crowley yelped and jumped up, throwing the blanket off and expelling Aziraphale in one movement.

“What the… is there someone there?” Crowley said, his voice wavering slightly as he looked around the room. Aziraphale patted his hand and Crowley jumped.

“Aziraphale?” He asked after a moment, his eyes going wide for a moment before he narrowed them and squinted around the room. “Have you been discorporated?”

“Yes, unfortunately I have.” Aziraphale said impatiently. “I need you to go to Royal London Hospital and see about healing my body, I don’t fancy heading back up to Heaven during the spiritual busy season.”

Crowley continued to look around his living room, and then he picked up the remote from the coffee table and shut the television off. “Right.” He said. “I can’t see you or hear you at all but I’m assuming I didn’t imagine what just happened.” He ran a hand through his hair, which was sticking up on one side where he’d been laying down. It was rather an endearing look on him, Aziraphale thought with an unexpected rush of fondness, and Crowley tensed. He’d felt it, that moment when Aziraphale had warmed towards him.

“Aziraphale?”

“Yes, I’m here, you silly thing.” Aziraphale said with much more affection than he might have done if he’d been sure Crowley could hear him. Steeling himself, Aziraphale focused all the meager energy he had left to say as loud as he could, “Royal London Hospital. Quick as you can, please.”  

Crowley jumped then nodded. “Okay, okay, I’m going.” He stood up and stretched, looking around the room again. “Are you coming with me, or are you just going to lurk about overhead for the next couple of hours?”

“Of course I’m coming, that’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” Said Aziraphale, immensely irritated.

“Relax. I can feel you getting cross with me and I’m just trying to help. Do you want to share my body or not?”

Aziraphale hesitated. That had not been what he’d thought Crowley was talking about but he supposed it was a logical leap to make after what Aziraphale had done to wake him. He wasn’t sure what to make of the offer. Sharing a body with a human had been uncomfortable enough. Sharing a body with _Crowley_  would be... well, it would be something. Crowley could obviously sense Aziraphale’s reluctance because he let out a frustrated sigh.

“Angel, come here.”

Slowly, hesitatingly, Aziraphale moved forward and looked Crowley up and down. He was still ruffled from sleep, his hair sticking up and his expensive clothes rumpled. His expression, however, was alert and expectant, his golden eyes scanning the air in front of him, looking right through Aziraphale. He spread his arms by his sides and raised his eyebrows. “I’m not going to bite you, you know.”

“You couldn’t if you wanted to.” Aziraphale said, knowing Crowley couldn’t hear him, and then, steeling himself for the action, Aziraphale stepped towards him and settled into Crowley’s body.

It was rather like sliding into a hot bath after being outside in the cold and the wind all day, if that bath happened to already have you dear friend sitting in it. Comfortable, warm and safe, but _infinitely_ awkward.

“Crowley, this isn’t going to work.” Aziraphale said out of Crowley’s mouth, and instantly stood up a bit straighter at how different Crowley’s voice sounded from inside his own skull. He prodded the tongue around inside the mouth and felt a little jolt in his stomach at the sensation of forked tongue over sharp teeth.

“Stop that.” Crowley said, and Aziraphale felt him suppress a frisson of pleasure as he thought about what Aziraphale had just done with his tongue. “Let’s go get you sorted.”

It was hard, at first, to sit back and let Crowley take control of things, because Aziraphale wasn’t sure where to go or what to do in a body that wasn’t his and his tenseness seemed to be interfering with Crowley’s concentration. Eventually he let out another loud sigh and stopped trying to put his coat and scarf on.

“Just relax, angel. Trust me.”

“Maybe I ought to leave and get to the hospital myself.” Aziraphale fretted.

“No.” Crowley said very quickly. “You think I can’t tell how exhausted you are? Stay put.”

“But—”

“Stay. Put.” Crowley growled. “And stop worrying so much, if I drive with you thinking like that I’ll get myself discorporated as well and then we’ll both be in trouble.”

Aziraphale did his best to stay silent and out of the way as Crowley drove the Bentley (significantly slower and less recklessly than he usually did, Aziraphale noticed) to the hospital where Aziraphale’s body was on life support. 

They made it to the hospital and to the room where Aziraphale’s body was hooked up to an IV and several machines with only a minimum of interference, most in the form of Aziraphale accidentally reasserting himself when he realized Crowley had never been inside this building and therefore didn’t know the layout, and he had and therefore did.

Crowley healed Aziraphale’s body back to a state of, if not perfect health, then at least habitation. Aziraphale thanked him and jumped back, extremely glad to be done sharing. He blinked up at Crowley from his own eyes, and Crowley blinked back, raising his eyebrows.

Aziraphale smiled. “Thank you, my dear, I can’t express how grateful I am.”

Crowley smiled back, but it was not a happy thing. He looked, Aziraphale thought, rather sad and more than a little worried. “I suppose you can make it back to Soho without getting hit by another moron with a car?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to say yes, and thought of the way Crowley’s aura had reached out for his as he slept, and how warmly he’d felt towards him when he knew Crowley couldn't see, and how unhappy he'd been all month. “I’d appreciate it if you’d come back to the bookshop with me, actually. That is, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

“No,” Crowley said, smiling more genuinely and giving Aziraphale’s hand a squeeze, “it’s no trouble at all.”

Several hours later found them cuddled together on the couch in Aziraphale’s back room, a blanket covering them both, a plate of gingersnaps and hot drinks on the coffee table in front of them. There was a tree in the corner covered in a very old string of colored lights and a mismatched collection of ornaments, all of which Crowley had dug out of one of the many closets in the flat above the shop.

When they’d got into the shop and Crowley had expressed astonishment that Aziraphale had no decorations up, the angel had said, a bit snappishly, that if Crowley was so bothered he could do the work himself and that everything was in the closet in the upstairs landing. He’d expected Crowley to roll his eyes and say something about how appropriate it was that Aziraphale was such a humbug. He hadn’t expected his face to light up and him to direct Aziraphale to sit down and let him handle it, and hurry upstairs.

He’d miracled the fake tree into a live one, ignoring Aziraphale’s questioning look, and he’d pulled the old console television that Aziraphale usually kept along the wall and used as a side table out in front of them. He’d put _It’s A Wonderful Life_ on, and made them drinks, and settled on the couch with Aziraphale, who found to his surprise it was all agreeable and enjoyable (even the film—he’d never been able to get past the conceit that Heaven’s bureaucracy would ever be concerned about one man’s life like that enough to actually enjoy it, but this evening, with Crowley there, it seemed more possible, somehow, that goodness and love like that could exist). Somewhere along the line Crowley turned their hot tea into mulled wine and scooted closer. Three or four drinks in he leaned against Aziraphale, who was feeling very warm, comfortable, and still tired from popping in and out of his body. His head drifted down to Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley didn’t push him away. He thought back to him extending the offer to ride along in his corporation and wondered how he could have ever thought he would. 

At some point the clock on the wall chimed midnight, and Crowley threaded their fingers together under their shared blanket and squeezed. Aziraphale squeezed back, feeling impossibly, totally content. He couldn’t have turned a teacup into a wineglass, or much of anything else, at that moment, but he was warm and Crowley was a comfortable weight against him.

“Merry Christmas, angel.” Crowley murmured, sounding like he was only moments away from falling asleep.

Aziraphale felt a rush of fondness sweep through him, and he pressed a kiss to Crowley’s neck. “Merry Christmas, my dear.”

The movie had long since ended, and there was nothing but static from the television which by all rights shouldn’t have been able to play anything at all, and Crowley hummed contentedly beside him. “Should go up to bed, probably. I’m sure you’re still exhausted.”

“I am, a bit.” Aziraphale admitted. “But…” He hesitated. He didn’t want to get up, to burst this delicate little bubble they’d formed over the course of the evening. It was just now occurring to him that this was what he’d been missing, rushing about and envious without realizing it all December. This feeling of closeness and comfort people talked about. Somehow it had never occurred to him that maybe he’d wanted this, Crowley curled up against him and kissing his forehead sleepily.

“I’ll come with you, if you like.”

Aziraphale’s heart leapt, and he pulled Crowley to his feet as he got up. The demon yawned, and waved a hand at the staticky television, and together they headed upstairs where they climbed into Aziraphale’s rarely-used bed, snow falling outside, making the world bright and glittering for Christmas.

 

[1] A name which was in and of itself a small hilarity

[2] The version of A Christmas Carol with the singing frog came top of the list

[3] Both pleased him for different reasons

[4] A very long time indeed although not, if we’re being honest, for the whole of history

[5] Although this was due more to Aziraphale’s desire to do less work than because he genuinely believed there was no longer any Goodness in the holiday

[6] Or perhaps an _extremely_ bizarre form of Godly intervention


End file.
